There is no imagination for the reality of disability. It shows up
in what you cannot do, and in what you can do – but no one listens.
You can talk about Gödel, and realize that you cannot compose music,
you can try your hand at writing novels – but no one will give you
the chance whether or not to prove them. There was only the
quintessence poise which leaves you with nothing but the equipoise of
remembering who you are, and what you might have become.

Perchance you
will know that it means nothing, and nothing, as CS Lewis said, is
the great tool of the unknown. You write, knowing it means Nothing.
Perhaps you can compose, knowing it means Nothing. There was once
upon a time, when people could write – but that was ended, instead
People – with capital P – scribbled their thoughts so that people
could for profit.

But, the torrents of imagination do
not flow through these veins – but leak only slowly in two
consciousness, because they might have meaning, when Meaning has lost
its fury. When the lecture halls are empty, and the symphony is heard
over the blare.